


left alone

by nbsherlock



Series: i follow you [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbsherlock/pseuds/nbsherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he can try, at least. <br/>--<br/>this takes place when john is staying at 221b after sherlock's been shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	left alone

**Author's Note:**

> ugh. im sorry this is a thing.

john clenches his fists. 

he knows what this is. he was shot, for god's sake. he had a psychosomatic limp-- at one point. and he knows what this is. 

he stands outside sherlock's bedroom, stomach churning and nails biting crescents into his palms. he can hear it. little cries, echoing nights spent in empty rooms in serbia, the impact of his torn skin on the ground of the landmark hotel, the blood cascading down his chest in front of his best friend's _bloody wife_. a miscalculation. god, it was all a miscalculation. john takes a deep breath and leans his forehead against the wood. 

from here, he can hear, but he can't see. he doesn't know what he'll do when he can see. 

he can hear the bed sheets sliding together and sherlock's gasping breaths and he must be shaking the whole bed, the whole flat, john feels an earthquake under his feet. 

and suddenly his hand is on the doorknob and he's turning and pushing and he _sees_ now. and it's bubbling up his throat, now. i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i didn't mean for this to happen, maybe if you never met me, maybe if i had just died in afghanistan so you didn't have to deduce my gunshot wound or my limp or the fact that i have a therapist or that my sister's a drunk. from my cellphone and my hands and my posture and john has to close his eyes tight and clench his teeth so he doesn't explode. so everything doesn't come up his throat and all over sherlock's thousand thread-count sheets. 

now that he's in he doesn't know what to do. sherlock is still tossing and turning and he's covered in a sheen of sweat. his body is moonlit. it's painful and exquisite and john needs to wake him up. he won't stop having a nightmare unless john wakes him up. 

_but that's not true, is it?_ there's a twisted voice in his head. _every waking moment of his life is a nightmare now. and it's because of you._

john shuts his eyes but doesn't manage to stop the pinpricks of tears in the corners of his eyes. the weight of the words feel heavy and unpleasant in his stomach and he reaches out and grabs sherlock's shoulder. 

and immediately regrets it. 

sherlock jolts. his entire body shakes and then seizes up. and then, there's a soft hissing sound that john only establishes as what it is after the fact. sherlock is stock still and has just pissed himself and john can't move. his fingers are still dug into the thin skin of sherlock's shoulder and he can't move. he can't breathe.

sherlock starts shaking, slowly. his body quakes and shivers and then suddenly he's crying. and john can't let go. 

he opens his mouth to say something but there's nothing there. nothing sitting on his tongue or crawling up his throat. no apologies. no begging for forgiveness. no declarations of love. there's nothing there. 

with all of the strength he can muster up, a faint, lilted, "sherlock?" comes out from between his lips. 

sherlock shakes harder. john holds on and breathes. he needs to be the strong one here. he can't rely on sherlock for comfort. sherlock needs his help. 

john closes his eyes and opens them again. then, he rolls sherlock onto his back. 

his face is a mess. he's tear-streaked and snotty and turning purple with the effort of holding in his sobs. john breathes and then goes to the foot of the bed to pull the sheets off. 

when he walks back over sherlock is openly crying again. john helps him up, slowly. this is patience. this is love. 

they both limp to the bathroom. sherlock still moaning and whimpering. it's okay, john thinks. it's all fine. 

john strips his clothes off meticulously. he's a doctor. he can be clinical about this. he can remove himself. 

he can try, at least. 

he starts the shower and is careful with sherlock's gauze. he washes him quickly and thoroughly, without hands lingering in one place for too long. sherlock is a deer in the headlights who's been struck over and over and over again but won't move, won't die. 

john dries him off quickly and wraps him in his warmest dressing gown. this is good. sherlock has abandoned crying for the occasional whimper and it fills john with a sick sense of hope. this will not be okay. but he can try and make it better. 

he leads sherlock out into the sitting room and then over to the stairs. sherlock makes an inquisitive noise through his sniffling and john reminds him, softly, that his bed is soiled. they'll fix it. it'll be okay. 

sherlock nods and follows john up the stairs, their hands latched together. 

sherlock lays down in john's bed. 

something wicked slithers up his spine and whispers, "he looks right in your bed. he looks good there. he looks like he's _yours_."

john turns to leave but sherlock whimpers once, softly. stay. please, stay. 

he can't say no. 

_god_ , he could never say no. 

he curls into bed with sherlock and looks at him for a bit. sherlock looks back, eyes swollen. 

"i'm sorry," john whispers. they're telling secrets. 

sherlock whispers back, "it's okay."

it isn't okay. but as sherlock shuts his eyes and drifts back to sleep, john feels safety close in over them. now, right now, in this moment, they're safe.


End file.
